


April Fool's One-Shot: In Which Nothing Gets Mixed Up

by OnaDacora



Series: Undertale One-Shots [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: April Fools' Day, CoBC Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnaDacora/pseuds/OnaDacora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something unusual happens with Deacon Stuart (of WTMYH) and Peter Capra (of CoBC, by TotalSkeletonTrash) in our collaborative April Fool's Day chapters.</p><p>Hi-jinks and Low-jinks ensue.</p><p>(Previously Chapter 115 of WTMYH, but removed and re-posted.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	April Fool's One-Shot: In Which Nothing Gets Mixed Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TotalSkeletonTrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalSkeletonTrash/gifts).



Deacon doesn’t make a habit of drinking at home by himself. It’s just depressing, _more_ depressing than drinking alone at a bar. But he can’t stomach the idea of going down to Grillby’s, and he doesn’t feel up to driving downtown. So at home will have to do.

He’s got a bottle of cheap rum that’s followed him through a handful of moves, still half-full because he can’t stand the stuff but can’t bring himself to throw it away. And, well, he doesn’t exactly keep a liquor cabinet so that’s his only option. Thankfully he’s got some coke in the fridge to make it drinkable.

For a moment he debates texting you, just to blow off some steam from his long day but then he remembers you mentioned plans with Sans. So much for that. There’s no way you’d rather join his pity party than enjoy the evening with your fiance. Shit, _he_ doesn’t want you to.

So instead of worrying about adolescent monsters and their frustrated parents (parent-teacher conferences are the absolute worst, no matter if the parents are human or monster), Deacon chooses to drown his frustrations in alcohol and watch some shitty television. As he’s flipping channels he settles on a movie that’s just starting.

He’s never seen Freaky Friday before, never had any interest in it, but he’s two rum and cokes in and right now it sounds like the greatest thing he’s ever heard of.

But thoughts of work won’t leave him alone. The usual, _“Well my son’s never had this problem before,”_ and _of course_ don’t forget the, _“My daughter would never do that!”_ Apparently blaming teachers for their kids’ problems is a universal truth that crosses the line between the species. Uh, metaphorically and literally, as it were.

He chuckles to himself at his own internal joke, but it does little to help his mood. “God, I don’t deserve any of this shit,” he sighs.

Slamming back his third rum and coke, Deacon settles down into his sofa.

* * *

He must have stumbled into bed at some point after he’d settled into his liquor-fueled haze, but even in his groggy, half-asleep state he knows this isn’t his bed. Did he leave the house at some point and wind up going home with someone? That doesn’t sound too unusual for him, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself. Not that he makes a habit of that. Well, either of those things. Going home with strangers while absolutely wasted or being honest with himself. More the latter than the former, actually. On second thought, just scratch that first thing. That’s becoming a habit.

Cracking open his eyes to take in his surroundings, he’s greeted by an unfamiliar alarm clock. It’s currently screeching at him in a high-pitched whine that is making his swimming head even more swimmy. He buries his face into a pillow and whacks blindly at the offending object until it stops. God, he just feels disoriented. Not like a normal hangover at all, but his body feels… heavier and and his stomach is queasy.

Well, no time like the present to see where the hell he’s found himself this time. With a cursory glance around the room, he realizes that he’s alone. Huh. It’s also way too damn early, before dawn and still mostly dark outside. He pulls himself out of bed, feeling light-headed for a few seconds before regaining his bearings. Smacking his lips, his mouth tastes sour and for some reason his teeth feel weird. Ugh, he ought to at least rinse his mouth out in the bathroom. Also he really needs to piss.

Crossing the small bedroom in a few, mostly-steady strides, he makes his way to the bathroom to relieve himself. Closing his eyes and groaning as he rubs his hand over his face, he fumbles with himself for a moment, groggy and more out of sorts than he thinks he should be for just trying to pee. Once his business is done he shifts over to the sink. He turns the knob for water and fills up a glass tumbler sitting on the counter. He gargles and spits, then swallows a few mouthfuls before setting the glass back down.

Then Peter Capra glances at the bathroom mirror and nearly chokes, spraying water everywhere.

“What the fuck?!” he splutters, coughing and whirling around to look behind him for the unfamiliar face in the mirror. There’s no one there. He looks at the mirror again and there’s that same blonde-haired, blue-eyed face that had been staring at him a second ago. “What the _fuck_?” he says again, and realizes that his voice sounds all wrong. It’s younger, a little smoother. And the blonde in the mirror is the one talking.

Oh this is some kind of magic bullshit. It has to be. What other explanation is there?

Capra’s body tenses, then he forces himself to relax with a long, slow exhale. This is fine. He’ll make this work, see what the hell is going on, and figure out if maybe it’s something he can utilize for something later. He’s wanted an up close and personal encounter with this kind of crazy-ass magic, and, _well_ , here’s his fucking chance.

First thing’s first. Take stock of his situation. He reaches out to wipe the mirror with his right hand and immediately wonders how he could have missed the _giant fucking tattoo_ from his wrist to his shoulder. That’s his first sign that he must be in someone else’s body, and not just that his own somehow changed. Because he doesn’t think that freaky body-changing magic would go through the effort to add this impressive ink.

Sighing at his reflection, Capra scrunches his new face and runs his fingers through his hair. “Well, at least I’m still handsome. But I’m not in love with this hair.”

* * *

After getting dressed (who in their right mind would own so many sweater vests?) and taking a quick look through the house, he finds a cell phone he only assumes belongs to the person he’s currently swapped with. Is that what this is, though? Is this person —Deacon Stuart, according to his degree in the second bedroom— in _his_ body instead? Back at his mansion? He tries to call his phone but he just gets a message about an invalid number. That can’t be right. He dials it again with the same result. Well, fuck you too, whatever caused this whole mess. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

He decides to head outside, to face wherever he wound up head-on. His immediate impression is that he’s in a forest, out in the middle of nowhere. Well, might as well take a quick walk around.

Capra finds a familiar face just down the road.

Sans is standing in front of a two story, wooden house, talking to a young woman he’s never seen before. He pays her little attention, focusing instead on the skeleton with a single-minded intensity that has him jogging up the driveway, waving.

“Sans! Buddy! You have _no_ idea how happy I am to see you right now, you beautiful angel of a man,” Capra says, grinning from ear to ear as the pair turns to look at him.

He’s not sure why he expects an enthusiastic welcome, considering that as far as Capra knows Sans has no idea who this blonde guy is. But instead of just perhaps polite bewilderment, or even just a lack of recognition, he’s greeted with a sour look that one might give something stuck to the bottom of a shoe. “what’s up, pal?” he asks, raising a brow.

The woman gives him a confused look, her eyes sweeping him from head to toe as one hand curls around an ID badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “Deacon, what are you doing here? We need to get to work.”

Capra turns his attention to this woman instead, a little taken aback by Sans’s cold reception. She’s dressed in business casual, her thick brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Whoever she is, she clearly knows him (or, well, his body?) and it sounds like they work together. That’s helpful.

But he just can’t get over Sans’s dour expression! He’d won over the skeleton once before, surely he can do it again. “I just thought I’d come see my favorite neighbors,” he says, flashing a smile.

“we’re your only neighbors,” Sans says, narrowing his eyes a little. He seems confused about something, and as Capra studies him, he realizes that there’s something… different about him. He’s, well to be honest, a lot less creepy looking. His mouth is more pliable as he talks, his face more obviously expressive and animated.

The thing that really cements it in his head that something here is just _wrong_ is when Sans pulls his hands out of his pockets and reaches for the woman’s hand. He’s wearing a _wedding ring_. Sans! Is this like some bizarre mirror universe? Is everyone going to end up evil and have a goatee?

“Even more reason for me to come and visit, am I right?” Capra says, stroking his chin. “If you can’t visit your own neighbors then who _can_ you visit?”

“how about anybody else?” Sans says, sounding more bewildered than annoyed by this point.

“Is something wrong? You seem a little off,” the woman says, pulling away from Sans and walking up to Capra.

“babe, he’s always like this.”

“Deacon?” she asks, looking up at him with pretty, brown eyes. Oh, she’s something, isn’t she?

“hope, you’re gonna be late,” Sans says, and Capra is thankful for a name. Though, he supposes he could have snuck a peek at her badge. “deacon did you need something? or did you just feel like being particularly annoying this morning?”

 _Well_ , whoever this Deacon person is, Sans doesn’t seem to like him very much. God, what kind of dipshit must this dude have to be? Sans is magnificence made monster, and if he doesn’t like his body, then Capra is finding himself sharing that opinion very quickly. This is awkward. Hope is still looking up at him, like she’s trying to solve some kind of puzzle. He makes a split-second decision to keep up this charade, pretending to be Deacon so that he can try to figure out what the hell he’s gotten himself into. It’s super helpful that he has no idea who this guy is.

“Absolutely,” Capra says, eyeing Sans again. Well, if there’s no chance of endearing Sans to him, then he might as well just enjoy himself by nagging him incessantly instead. “Here’s me, bringing you your morning dose of obnoxious.”

Hope takes hold of his arm, steering him away with a frown. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to your house. God knows you won’t let me just take you to work and leave Sylvie at home.”

...Sylvie?

As it turns out, ‘Sylvie’ is a horrible hunk of scrap metal masquerading as a car. How has this thing not been torn to shreds by one of those junkyard machines, or compacted into a metal cube like you see on those TV shows? This thing has no business still being allowed on the road! Not to mention how fucking awful its emissions must be. That alone is enough to make him regard the car with a scowl as he fishes an unfamiliar set of keys out of his pocket.

Hope is waiting in her car. It’s a much more sensible vehicle; at least _she_ seems to have some awareness of the environment. Good job weird alternate Sans. (He wonders, not for the first time, what all of this means for himself and his friends. What would they ever do without him?) But now he’s just letting himself get distracted. No, time to worry about the task at hand: trying to figure out how to drive a stick shift.

Oh god is there an extra pedal? What the fuck is that for?

 _Fuck_.

Okay, new plan.

Capra doesn’t even try to start the engine. He gets back out, slams the door shut, and walks back over to where Hope is waiting. “Deacon?” she asks, watching him through the windshield as he pulls open the passenger door and climbs in. “Is something wrong with Sylvie?”

“Sure. Yes, won’t start,” he says with a flip of his hand as he buckles his seatbelt.

“Oh no! I know how much you love that car…”

_I absolutely despise that car._

* * *

It’s during the ride to work (a school; apparently ‘Deacon’ is a teacher, which is something he’ll have to worry about soon) that Capra realizes that it can’t be a coincidence that this happened after watching Freaky Friday. What kind of awful, cliche fucking magic must be at work to have him live out a Lindsay Lohan movie? And if that’s what started all of this bullshit, then what did he have to do to get things back to normal? Hope seems nice enough but this Sans… he can’t go on like this. Not without his wonderful, fantastic, absolute treasure of a skeleton making his days just _that_ much more enjoyable.

No, he’s got to fix this and pronto.

What was the plot of that movie anyway? It was some kind of… walking in someone else’s shoes, contrived plot device… _thing_. Was he supposed to learn some kind of lesson from this? Is that what this was meant to accomplish?

Gritting his teeth, then catching himself, then not caring because it’s not like these are _his_ teeth, Capra decides that he’ll try to sort out this ridiculous mystery. Maybe, once this is all over, he’ll come away with knowledge of some magic he’d never dreamed was possible! He’d seen some _weird_ shit since meeting Sans and rekindling his friendship with his old bosses’ daughter. Rips in the fabric of reality, a giant floating skull-beast that he thinks tried to kill him at their first meeting, and how can one forget the fucking _skarm_? After all this he’d think this would all be old hat, but no. This takes the cake. The entire, five tier, glorious, confectionary marvel of a cake.

Maybe he should have eaten something for breakfast.

* * *

Why couldn’t this guy have been a science teacher? He could bullshit some science lessons. No, of course it’s history.

He doesn’t know the first thing to tell these kids. With their bright, impressionable faces and eagerness to learn. Capra grabs hold of the back of the cheap office chair behind his desk and pulls it around to the front, flopping into the seat. Swiveling idly from side to side, he eyes the kids with a neutral expression, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Well, there is _one_ thing he has prepared to speak about today.

"What do you kids know about reverse-triangular mergers?"

Their confused and slightly vacant expressions tell him all he needs to know.

Rubbing his hands with a wide grin, he laces his fingers together and tucks them behind his head, leaning back in his seat. “Well, then you guys are in for a treat.”

* * *

His presentation is a smashing success, at least as far as he can tell. Kids are tricky. Monster kids, especially so. Sure he used to babysit, but she’d been whip-smart and loved to listen to him ramble on about Star Wars. _She’d_ never spontaneously combusted in the middle of a lecture (at least, she hadn’t back then and as far as he knows she still doesn’t, but who knows with magic?) like a student in his third period had.

He’d kept his cool. (He almost squirted the kid with a fire extinguisher he found hanging on the wall.) He’d hit it off well with the students. (He managed to play it off as a joke, when the kid put themselves out and started to cry.) And he managed to survive getting through the school day. (Barely.)

What was he supposed to learn from this? That kids are better at listening to investment proposals than adults? Did he need to try and find a bunch of trust fund babies instead?

He catches himself before he starts to follow that train of thought, focusing instead on his growling stomach. It’s dinnertime and he realizes that he’s going to have to figure out something to eat. By himself. Oh, he is _not_ used to this. Years of living in the lap of luxury have far removed him from the habits of his time in college.

Speaking of college, he balks as he opens the pantry door only to be greeted by sparse shelves and a bulk box of ramen noodles. Oh no. No. This will _not_ do. Absolutely not.

A few minutes later he’s in front of Sans’s house, ringing the doorbell. Hope answers the door, a bewildered but not unhappy look on her face. “Hey, did you—”

“Hope! You like me. Please, all I have is ramen and I need food,” Capra whines, putting on his best ‘wounded puppy’ expression. “Help.”

She lets out a weak laugh, stepping aside to let him in. “It just so happens that Papyrus is out with Mettaton tonight so we have plenty of extra. We were just about to set the table,” she says, closing the door behind him as he steps into the foyer.

It’s no mansion, not like _his_ Sans is used to, but it seems nice enough. Quaint. Cozy. Bigger than Deacon’s house at least. Hope heads to the left off the entryway into the kitchen, and as he’s about to follow after her he spots an eclectic scattering of framed pictures in the stairwell. Curiosity getting the better of him, he walks over to take a look. But before he has the chance, he hears feet trampling down the stairs at a rapid pace.

“Quit stomping down the stairs!” Hope calls from the kitchen, right as a small, brown-haired child rounds the turn in the stairwell.

They hesitate for a second, blinking, before continuing their descent, giving him a big grin. “Hi Mr. Stuart!”

Who is this kid? They look… vaguely familiar but he can’t quite pinpoint why. More importantly, _why_ is there a kid in Sans’s house? He realizes he’s staring when their smile starts to fade and they pass him at the foot of the stairs, giving him a weird look. He clears his throat. “Hey there… kid,” he says, wandering after them towards the kitchen (and more importantly, _food_ ).

Sans is there, sitting at the island bar and watching Hope as she pulls a stack of plates out of a low cabinet. The kid walks over to him and tugs on his sleeve, getting his attention. “wassup, frisk?”

Frisk! _That’s_ why they seem familiar! They’d seen the kid on the news, after the Barrier fell. But that still didn’t answer the question of _why_ they were here. In this house. With Sans.

“Dad, Mr. Stuart is acting funny,” they say, glancing around Sans to where Capra is standing.

Wait. Hold the phone. “WHAAAAAAAAAT?” Capra blurts out, wide-eyed and taken wholly by surprise.

Hope and Sans both turn to look at him, Hope’s expression more concerned confusion while Sans just rolls his eyes. Uh. Fuck. Probably not the best thing he could have done.

“Whaaaaaaat?” he says again, softer this time, letting out a high-pitched laugh. “I’m not acting funny.”

“Sweetie, can you set the table?” Hope asks, passing the plates to Frisk. She tops them off with a handful of silverware.

Frisk hesitates but does as they’re asked, disappearing into the dining room. Okay. So. Can someone please explain to him how the hell this Sans is a dad? (Of all the questions he had about Sans's dick, this was suddenly, by far, the largest.) Is that why he’s such a sourpuss? See, this is why you don’t have kids. Or, like, adopt kids. Or have anything to do with the long term care and maintenance of a kid. It sucks the life out of you.

He’s staring again, into the dining room with what he thinks must be a weird look on his face because as he catches himself he finds Hope watching him.

“Deacon, are you okay?” she asks slowly, glancing at Sans.

“Sure. You know me, I’m perfect,” he says with a smile he hopes comes off genuine. “Just hungry. Famished, really.”

Somehow that isn’t the answer she seemed to expect. There’s a second where a furrow forms between her brows before it disappears. Then, smiling, she turns around and picks up a set of glasses and hands them to him. He stares at them, unsure what to do. “Can you go help Frisk set the table? That would be a big help.”

“I’m sorry, do I look like the hired help?” he says, arching a brow before he can stop himself.

“i’m pretty sure you just invited yourself in for dinner, so yeah, right now you do,” Sans says, and Capra can’t help but feel a little cowed by his annoyed tone. He misses _his_ Sans. The one who lovingly nags him. Whose words are as friendly as they are sharp.

This universe sucks.

With a long-suffering sigh, Capra wanders off into the dining room with his hands full of glassware. Frisk is sitting at the table, watching him as they rest their chin in their hands. What’s up with this kid? Their eyes follow him as he plunks down the cups at the respective place settings, and so he meets their gaze just as unflinchingly. Two can play at that game.

Okay, two cannot play at that game, now it’s just getting weird. “ _What_?” he says petulantly.

Frisk blinks. “Nothing.”

Grumbling to himself, he heads back towards the kitchen but stops himself as he hears Hope and Sans talking in low voices. Curious, Capra leans his shoulder against the wall, just out of sight.

“I think something’s seriously wrong with him,” Hope says, sounding worried. “He’s just acting so strange, maybe he’s more upset about that breakup with Grillby than he was letting on, or—”

“babe, are you kidding? he’s literally always like this,” Sans says.

“Maybe all this, here on Ebott… it’s a lot to adjust to, maybe he finally snapped. I mean, I thought he was just adjusting well—”

“no, i’m serious. he’s always like this. i think you’re just finally starting to notice.”

“You know, it’s not nice to snoop,” Frisk says at his elbow, making Capra jump and let out an undignified yelp.

“You know what else isn't nice?” Capra says, squinting at them and hunching forward to put himself at eye level. “Sneaking up on people when they’re trying to listen.”

Frisk squints back, crossing their arms over their chest with a serious expression that’s almost laughable. “MOM!” they yell, and he jerks backwards, bumping into the wall as he glares down at the kid, trying to shush them. “Mr. Stuart is being weird again!”

“Dammit kid,” he hisses, reaching out to grab their arm as they head into the kitchen but thinking better of it. He can’t imagine that ending well.

Before he can move away from the wall Hope comes into view, jumping a little when she spots him just as she enters the room. “ _God_ , what are you doing hiding like that?” she blurts out, clutching a hand to her chest. Her eyes search his face as he wracks his brain for some kind of reply, none of which are forthcoming. Instead she sighs, giving him a weak smile. “You know what, forget it. Why don’t we just eat?”

“Fantastic. That sounds like the perfect idea,” he says, leaping on the suggestion.

Dinner is… awkward. No one seems to know what to say to him, so instead they just keep talking to each other in short bursts of conversation. Boring questions about each other’s day, Sans asking Frisk about homework. It’s so weird, so _unbelievably_ weird to see him act like a dad. It just makes him miss his own Sans even more. None of this boring responsibility, no… _family_ talk around the table. This is lame. Beyond lame. The lamest.

Hope keeps acting like she wants to say something to him but she never quite manages. It’s starting to get a little annoying.

“So…” Capra says, drawing out the syllable as he waits for Sans and Hope to look at him. Just say something, make casual conversation. He’s good at this, he schmoozes all the time with big business execs. “Did you hear that UnitedGlobalink and SeaCo are merging?”

They just stare for a second, like they don’t know what to say. Do they not keep up with these things? It will completely change the entire seatrade market! Even as just consumers, hell _especially_ as consumers, this affects the prices of everything from food to clothing!

“...Did you get bored and read a business magazine or something?” Hope asks, raising a brow.

Oh forget it. “Uh, saw it on the news this morning,” he says, internally cringing.

He’s fucking wasted on these people. They’d never be able to appreciate the full scope of Peter Capra, fabulous CEO and charmer of, well, everyone. No amount of shitty, cliche magic is worth this torture.

How can he possibly get back to where he belongs?

* * *

He has to watch Freaky Friday again. That’s the only answer. He needs to see the end (which he missed last time thanks to a heavy application of alcohol) so that he can try to replicate it. Hypothesis formed, time to experiment. Scientific method, bitches.

The only problem with this plan is that Freaky Friday is a fucking, godawful movie. He’s maybe a third of the way through when the cheap rum on the coffee table starts looking _really_ tempting. At the halfway point he just starts taking swigs straight from the bottle to try and numb the pain. It’s almost as terrible as the movie, but once he’s had a few mouthfuls he starts not to notice as much.

Soon he stops noticing anything at all.

* * *

Deacon Stuart opens his eyes and realizes, with a sudden clarity, that he’s in his own bed. His own, little, modest bed with a spring mattress that creaks a little as he jerks upright to look around his room. _His_ room. Oh thank god. He raises his right arm and there’s his tattoo, just where it should be.

No more Peter Capra. No more crisp suits and weird self-driving cars. No more ‘big business’.

Was it all just some kind of horrible dream? Or had he really swapped bodies with the worst human being imaginable? It had to have been a dream. It’s the only explanation.

He needs to tell you all about this. Maybe you’ll get a good laugh out of it at least.

Reaching for his phone (it’s on the nightstand next to him, thank god) he’s surprised to see that he got five texts from you last night. With no small amount of trepidation he opens up his messages. ‘You know you can talk to me right?’ ‘I mean, if anything is wrong. If you’re upset about the breakup with Grillby, or anything.’ Oh no. Did yesterday actually happen? ‘Deacon I’m starting to get a little worried about you, you were acting really weird today.’ Shit. Shit what had that weirdo done to get you so worried? Though, a small part of him is sort of flattered at your concern. ‘I really want to talk to you tomorrow.’ And finally, one from about thirty minutes ago. ‘Can you please give me a call when you get up?’

He groans, draping his arm (oh tattoo, how he missed it) over his eyes. Okay, maybe he wouldn’t be telling you about this. How could you ever believe it? Better to just do damage control, let you know he’s fine. Maybe find out just what that asshole did (oh god, he doesn’t even want to think about his classes yesterday).

Then, with slow, sinister amusement Deacon remembers two things: that Peter Capra has to deal with an office full of bees, and an angry Muffet back in that universe (sorry Muffet, _again_ ). At least he’d been given those wonderful opportunities to get back at him for whatever he’d managed to do here. He just wishes he could see the look on his face.

Enjoy your fucking bees, Capra. You creep.

What had been the point of all this? Who or what had gone through the effort to swap the two of them, and _why_? He’d been convinced there was some kind of lesson to learn at the end of it all, but there is only one thing he’s certain of.

“I learned absolutely nothing from this.”

**Author's Note:**

> To find out what happened during Deacon's day, go read the chapter [Something's Out Of Place](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6436090) by the fantastic and wonderful TotalSkeletonTrash. Or if you have no idea who Capra is, clearly you're missing out and you need to go read Chill or Be Chilled. Like RIGHT NOW.


End file.
